In the hallway students brush past you in twos and three bobbing as if treading water, gasping, seeking the wooden doorway of the rooms they will take solace in for the next fifty minutes.The tapestry of faces continues to weave itself out from the atomic fabric. After first hour I see the Boy w/out a face but I don’t see the mermaid, the angelic countenance of the creature I feel destined to meet. I am trudging through a hallways through a chorus of jangles and clanks, lockers with staccato hinges offering clangorous applause—I am lost, the Boy Without a Face, the second person pronoun, the exclamatory stem of the sprouting I all coalesced into the chronicled breath of high school.
I pinch my locker combination like a nipple.
It doesn’t open. I try it again. Frustrated, hoping not to look inept to the sea of what will be my classmates lugging nylon backpacks
It feels like I am locked in a Sarcophagus, wielding it open with a flattened hanger.
Finally on the third endeavor it releases itself. I walk inside, the boy without a face, the boy who is embarrassed to wear his glasses because they cast parallel bars across his bride of his nose and forehead.
I open my locker and go inside.
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